


Home, Town

by tjstar



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Blood and Injury, Dark, Drug Addiction, Fights, Homelessness, Hurt/Comfort, Love/Hate, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Smut, Trench Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-12-09 04:48:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,196
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20989106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tjstar/pseuds/tjstar
Summary: TRENCH is not even a fight club — the fight club is a prestigious brand, but Josh couldn’t even make it through a half of that book. Most of the TRENCH members hate literature with as much passion as they hate each other.And Josh is too close to an epicenter.---Josh fights for money, and Tyler fights his addictions.





	Home, Town

A semi-conscious guy spits his teeth out onto the dirty floor.

Josh would have felt _ bad _ for him, really, but it’s not what he’s preoccupied with at the moment. He wipes his bloody knuckles on a soiled cloth, peeling the reddened tape off as it slides down along with the scab on his hands.

“And the winner is...”

Josh’s arm is raised by Brendon — the host, an annoying guy who loves rainbows and glitters, and who represents _ the gay culture in this shithole. _ Josh doesn’t listen to the rest of the phrase — Brendon always says the exact same words.

“Joshua _ “Spooky Jim” _ Dun!”

Brendon emphasizes his nickname, given _ for a show_.

They call him an alien sometimes. Sometimes he gets beaten for the same reason.

The crowd is whooping like a herd of hungry dogs, gritting remaining teeth, bones in their mouths. Josh’s head is heavy after getting punched in his skull with hammer-like fists; he was really close to a knockF-down this time, but the bleeding from the opponent’s gums was a rain of luck.

“Dun! Dun! Dun!”

Their words are echoing off of Josh’s bare back, there are angry bruises mottling his torso. The audience wants him to get back and land a few more punches on the dude who can barely stand up, leaning on the grid. Josh is about to shake his hand, as polite as he is, but instead, he only gets a bloody slap against his forearm.

“My squad’s gonna fucking castrate you, Jim.”

His face is all wrinkled in pain. Josh swallows heavily and says,

“If I had a dog, I’d name him Jim.”

He never participates in fights beyond the ring. He’s not a lord of this ring. He’s no one, just like this faceless mass around him that makes him dizzy and queasy. With that, he leaves, highfiving a local cashier Mark everyone wants to befriend. Mark wipes his hand on his pants immediately.

“Thanks for a good fight.” 

“Is that all?” Josh cocks his head.

“No, no, of course not,” Mark disappears behind the door for a moment. “Here, take it,” he shoves crumpled bills into Josh’s sweaty palms. “Well-deserved, bro.”

He smiles.

Josh pulls a pack of gum out of his pocket, popping one piece into his mouth. Mint can’t quell the pain, burning his swollen tongue.

“There’s no need to kiss my ass, Mark,” he gnaws on his lip, watching Mark’s reaction. “Just kidding.”

Josh grabs his bag from a smelly dressing room, wading through the fighters on his way; some of them pat his aching shoulders, some of them glare at him enviously.

TRENCH is not even a fight club — the _ fight club _ is a prestigious brand, but Josh couldn’t even make it through a half of that book. Most of the TRENCH members hate literature with as much passion as they hate each other. 

And Josh is too close to an epicenter.

Josh’s jacket is sweat-soaked as he leaves the basement, literally smoked out of it — this place _ loathes _ him. His shitty car is another betrayer, it wheezes like a freshly-resurrected zombie. If he had started saving money, he would have already bought a new vehicle; but the circumstances have different plans. So he’s choking on the odor of cigarettes left from this rattletrap’s previous owner. Flea markets save lives, indeed. Josh drives down the unfriendly neighborhood, passing by a few groups of drunks; he rubs the sleep off his eyes and tugs at his black beanie until it’s almost covering his eyes. There is the fight round the corner, but Josh doesn’t want to join the league of justice or get a knife stuck in his liver.

He’s speeding up.

***

Josh’s house is just a temporary shelter. He throws his keys onto the table and drags himself into a living room with a lonely couch in it. His joints are aching when he’s rolling over onto his back, it’s certainly gonna kill him by the age of thirty-five. Josh is thirty, and his head is shaved so his rivals can’t grab him by his hair — it’s hella painful, he did a _ research_. 

Josh groans, his couch creaks, what a strange duo.

“Calm your fucking whore down!”

This almost throws Josh off the mattress.

“Dammit,” he lazily elbows the wall. “Shut your piehole.”

This rascal is an old fart Cooper, and no, not the agent Cooper from _ Twin Peaks _ and not even Bradley Cooper from _ The Star Is Born_. Their houses are like Siamese twins with a shared wall they can’t separate, and Cooper uses his crutch to bang at it daily and nightly, so sure Josh is used to have orgies restlessly. But Josh is only used to have an orgy with his right hand and with his left one sometimes, when he wants to try something _ new_.

Josh is dehydrated, he needs a cold drink, but his yellowed fridge is about to kick the bucket so everything inside is disgustingly warm. And covered in the mold if Josh doesn’t eat his food fast enough.

Josh is gonna have a morning shift tomorrow, at the gas station on the outskirts of a town. He’s just a cashier there, but he’s also mopping the floors and bathrooms and lugging heavy boxes full of stuff they’re selling. Some buyers tell him stories about their unhappy lives so Josh is also a psychologist. Ironically enough. So many jobs for just one salary, but his boss is rather generous to not ask Josh about the bruises decorating his face from time to time.

Rule number one: never ask questions and you won’t get your jaw broken.

It applies to both Josh and his boss.

Cooper knocks on Josh’s wall again.

***

Josh wouldn’t have been surprised if he had found a dismembered body on his lawn one day — or well, maybe not even dismembered but packed into a black body bag, with its putrid hand peeking through the zipper. He’s subconsciously always checking for it so he doesn’t run his car over a corpse. Or to make sure that this corpse isn’t following him, at least. There’s a huge dump beside the road, the stench is so fetid it makes Josh retch, but he’s lucky enough to skip the breakfast today.

Hunger sucks on his stomach, this day is a full-blown freakshow already.

He sees an old Cooper waving his middle finger in the window as he pulls his car to the driveway; Cooper flattens his nose against the glass, drooling over it. Josh shudders, imagining the way this fossil creep might sneak into his house in the middle of the night even though Josh can definitely fight back, but come on — he’s not allowed to do that. It’s all about his inner padlocks, not about his nobleness. Sometimes he thinks about smashing his pesky neighbor’s head like a pumpkin.

An old Cooper doesn’t have a family.

And neither does Josh.

Riding down to the bottom, he severed the last few ties with them. No matter how hard he tries to weave a thick rope of his good memories it always get ripped, chopped, leaving his hands singed.

“Wanna work for free, I see?”

Josh doesn’t get that it’s addressed to him.

“What?”

“Five minutes, Dun,” his boss scratches his beard. “Do you know what it means? Five minutes, ten dollars each,” he makes a note on his phone.

Josh tiredly rubs the bridge of his nose.

“Heaton, wait. The traffic was crazy.”

His car was about to break down at least twice.

“Do I care? No,” Heaton turns away. “Get the job done or I’ll fire you.”

Josh mentally says goodbye to his fifty dollars — how cruel, he thinks sarcastically — and kicks his car’s burst tire. There’s too much rage inside him projected on the things he’s done inside the ring. This is his second personality while he’s just a goner who’s lost his everything.

He dropped out of college, because _ fuck economics _ to join a band as a drummer instead. But a little fame leads to a lot of problems; so the drug-dealing had become the main business for some of their band members. There was a gameover, it was a miracle that Josh didn’t get sued along with them back then — but he was kicked out of the society to survive on his own. Their bass-player died in the rehab two years later, their lead singer got thrown into the prison. 

Josh begins to forget what a hi-hat is.

He’s far from home, alone in TRENCH and here at the gas stop, at this shitty store. Heaton should’ve gotten more employees, but there’s no need for doing so when he’s got a _ spineless _ Josh.

Josh, who never participates in conflicts with clients.

Josh, who works double-shifts for free.

Josh, who doesn’t have a place to hide from himself.

Josh doesn’t smoke, but it’s just so tempting. He fantasizes about the gasoline spilling out of the hose on the ground so vividly that this picture doesn’t disappear when he closes his eyes. He sees people burning in their sins. They cringe when they look down at his beaten hands with leftover pus leaking out of barely healed sores on his knuckles. Josh tries to hide them under the cuffs of his sleeves, but his blackened nails are problematic to cover as well.

Heaton never asks him about this.

***

TRENCH welcomes him with a short corridor leading to a back room where the fighters are boosting up their spirit for tonight. Mark is rushing among them, pushing the dudes aside to make his way to Josh. Josh takes his shirt off not to get rudely choked with it and slams the locker shut.

“What?” he asks without turning around.

“I need to lay some shit on you,” Mark whispers. “There’s a newcomer, you know. He paid me like there’s no tomorrow, but he’s like a typical dummy, okay?”

“And my problem with this is?..”

“Look at those dudes, any of them would kill him!”

“Are you fucking serious?” Josh grabs Mark by the shoulders. “I’m not gonna lose my money just because you found your Goldmine! I’m gonna fight fair and hard, even if it’s gonna land the dude to the hospital for a few weeks, got it?” he hustles Mark away, extremely pissed off.

The hallway is dark with neon arrows on the walls, tracking the direction to the ring.

“A newcomer,” Josh hisses out. “Bullshit.”

He takes his spot behind the rusty grid. The ring still has bloody spots on it, they don’t have a cleaning service to work with. Josh is watching the fight, almost relaxed though he knows he’s number _ four _ tonight. He wonders who’s gonna tackle the new dude. He had a bright yellow hair when he first joined TRENCH, he was way too noticeable in these fluorescent lights. Josh’s rival greeted him with all his might, suppressing his feeble attempts to fight back. He hurt Josh’s wrist and his kidneys, it was impossible to stand back up; Josh lost his first fight, everyone is losing in the beginning.

It took two weeks to recover and a month to earn a reputation.

Josh is not the worst fighter in TRENCH yet not the best one. He keeps his head cold when he steps into the ring and takes one of his fighting stances. It’s not a regular boxing, the only rule is: no rules. But you can’t kick your victim in the crotch or gouge out their eyes. Josh cracks his knuckles, shaking his hands in the air; he bounces on his feet, warming up and stretching his shoulders to improve his mobility. He’s still chewing his gum, excited about meeting his adversary. He’s ready to spit it out, but then the lights gather above the guy in the opposite corner.

Josh balls up his fists. He’s gonna break Mark’s nose for this vile betrayal.

“What the fuck.”

The guy’s eyes are dark, with even darker shadows underneath them and with a rather _ unprofessional _ look at all. He’s wearing a hoodie, and Josh can already see all of his weak spots — he can grab him by the hood now, choke him, throw him to the grid and pin him down, then applying a few kicks in his chest and jabbing his jaw.

A knock-down. A knock out, maybe, this is it, and Josh pops the bubble of his gum. The fight in his mind lasts only a few seconds, but he’s able to represent all the grappling holds in real life. He’s a winner.

“I’m out,” Josh says, lifting his crossed arms.

The audience is booing, they paid for the fight just like Josh and that idiot.

It seems that a confused dude can barely stand on his feet, gripping at the grid; he doesn’t know what to do with the block he’s just learned to keep up, it’s obvious. He’s not a fighter, he’s never crashed a jaw or has never gotten his own jaw crashed. And Josh is so, so angry. Technically he’s just lost a fight, lost his money — this day is a fucking curse; he can hear a loud _‘coward’ _ being spat at his back. He’s sure that guy is provoking him.

Josh hates it.

Josh hates it even more when he slams his fist against his dirty locker, leaving a dent there, then one more, then one more, bombarding it and imagining that dude’s bones he couldn’t break.

“Fuck,” Josh fumbles with the lock, ramming his things out of the locker and storming out of the room.

Ashamed, he runs past Mark’s office, he’s busy with counting the bills, and Josh wants to burn this damn place down. But he leaves the basement, hungry and with his pockets empty. He goes to his car when he hears a noise from behind, there is a hand on his shoulder; Josh jerks forward, letting his instincts take over. He knows how to break a finger, but his hand freezes inch away from the person’s palm.

“Wait,” the dude says. “You should punch me right now.”

“Fuck off,” Josh grumbles.

“Why?”

He tugs his sleeves down.

Josh doesn’t answer, hurrying away, but the guy doesn’t want to leave him alone.

“I thought you were fighting fair.”

“True.”

There are black lines tattooed on the guy’s wrist; his face is covered with a hood with a battered hem.

“You could get your prize.”

“You could shove your tongue up your ass,” Josh bursts up. “What do you want from me? Are you a fan of a fucking _ Palahniuk _ or what? This is not a book, get the hell out of here!” he doesn’t notice he’s screaming, finally pushing the guy in the chest and walking away.

He knows his car is going to break down again.

***

He’s saving money.

Josh can’t get a better job, but he still can do something meaningful for his family. They don’t even know he’s fighting for money.

Josh has a goal.

His younger brother Jordan needs a knee surgery that is as expensive as buying a helicopter, and Josh’s financial position and his mental state are so very far from _ fine_. A lot of things have changed since their childhood, so Josh supposes that Jordan wouldn’t take his money even though his injury would keep him away from getting a football scholarship. Josh would cut his palm with a dagger and swear he’d protect him, but he’s broken too many promises already. And it wasn’t Jordan’s fault that he was buckled up to a passenger seat, locked in the car with a drunk driver. Crashes still happen.

Josh sighs.

His thoughts are interrupted by both knocking at the door and banging on the wall.

“Oh, hi Mark,” Josh says with a straight face. “I didn’t hit him, that’s not true, I did not —”

“Name an actor worse than Tommy* — right, baby, it’s Joshua Dun,” Mark waves a pack of beer in the air. “You don’t even remember the words’ order.”

“Let’s film our own movie then? It would be iconic.”

“With a body like this, and with a talent at a solid zero level, I can only say that you can star at a 18+ movies. No regrets.”

This is why Josh hates Mark.

This is why Mark is his sort of a friend.

Josh rarely comes to TRENCH on the weekends. Mostly because he can’t get up from the bed when the weight of the week crashes down onto his shoulders. Josh is living on the bottom, but he doesn’t miss a chance to grab a shovel and bury himself deeper. Josh is still mad.

“Why did you pair me up with that dude?”

“I didn’t.”

“Oh really? Would you remember it better if I explained you the location of your fucking liver?”

Josh clutches the front of Mark’s flannel, ready to figuratively put his words to action. 

“I didn’t pair you two up, can you fucking listen to me?” Mark snaps back. “He paid for that and said that he was told to fight you, what did I have to do? I don’t need problems, Josh. You’ve been warned.”

Mark isn’t even afraid of him, this little bastard knows that Josh would have never punched _ a buddy_. Mark has a pocket knife since he’s working not at the safest place on earth. 

Josh is working out while Mark is eating burgers he’s brought; Josh’s mouth waters already, but he hasn’t finished. He’s doing the twists, and Mark gives him a thumb up, chewing.

“I think we should do something with those money.”

Josh puffs out a breath.

“Stop reminding me.”

“Why? Do you think he would stop coming back?”

“Listen,” Josh sits up on the floor. “I could knock him out in seconds, but I had no desire to pay for his hospital stay. Did you see him? Like really. We need a better access system.”

Josh falls back down, hitting the back of his head on the floor. Mark offers him an opened bottle of beer.

“He’s crazy enough to run after you and beg you to punch him.”

“Fucking spy,” Josh spits.

“I bet we’re gonna welcome him to a fam. He’s strong.”

Josh wipes the sweat off his face with an elastic bracelet.

“No. He’s pathetic.”

***

Josh wins two fights in a row — it was fairly easy even though his joints are screaming in pain now. It only increases when it’s raining; Josh’s bones are rusted from his own blood. He and his opponents are good at detecting each other’s weak spots, hitting there repeatedly; Josh is not good at taking punches in the head, and the dude he was fighting with knew that too. Josh wakes up woozy and blinks away a swarm of black spots, hoping he hasn’t gotten concussed. 

He doesn’t need an alarm clock when he has Cooper and his muffled yelps behind the wall.

“Been drinking all night long?”

“Oh God,” Josh whispers. “Shut up.”

He keeps ignoring the curses addressed to him, putting his beanie on. The picture outside the window is depressing as the rain has turned to a nasty drizzle, the wind keeps throwing cardboard sheets back and forth.

Josh is sure his face is as gray as the sky today.

His earbuds are broken, jogging without the music is an ordeal. Minor obstacles are always the worst, adding nothing but black shades to Josh’s already spoiled mood. Determined, he takes a deep breath before opening the door and letting tiny droplets spray his face. He has his favorite place to run across, nothing special, but he likes to race down the narrow streets and jump over metal fences. It’s a good way to clear his mind. Josh always takes a bottle of painkillers with him; sometimes he has to take one and sit down onto the nearest bench, waiting for a muscle cramp to pass.

Josh begins with a slow pace not to shock his body with such a sudden change of temperature even though the heater in his house is lazy enough for Josh to get chills almost every night. He’s raising his arms to get rid of rigidness, his shoulders crack.

_ ‘Whatever,’ _ Josh thinks. He zips up his sweatpants’ pockets not to let its contents fall out.

There are wide puddles gathering here and there, Josh’s sneakers are squelching against the asphalt, his pant legs are sprinkled with mud. The wind swishes in Josh’s ears, sinking in his brain until his head begins to spin.

He doesn’t notice a vague movement behind his back.

“Dude!”

Josh doesn’t stop.

“Dude, fuck, wait — we need to talk!”

“No, we don’t,” there’s a cloud sliding out of Josh’s mouth, as if everything is a scene from comics.

The soles of his soaked shoes keep slapping against the pools.

He didn’t expect to get a company, but here he is, trying to overpass a guy he couldn’t knock out just a few days ago — Josh clenches his teeth not to start a fight right there and then. He doesn’t slow down, but the dude doesn’t get lost. His breathing gets harsh and erratic. As they run under the bridge, he stumbles and flies into a support column with a pained exhale.

Josh stops dead in his tracks. He needs to tie his shoelaces.

His companion is choking on air, bent over with his palms clutching his shaking knees. The hood has fallen off his head, but Josh still can’t see his face clearly as the guy keeps his head low. He doesn’t whine that he’s tired, he’s just _ tired. _ Exhausted even. There is a huge bruise on the side of his neck, spreading from his swollen cheekbone down to his collarbone Josh can spot in an overstretched collar of his hoodie. He can swear this guy kept coming to TRENCH while Josh wasn’t there; not all the TRENCH fighters are as tolerant as Josh.

“Three more miles,” Josh says. “Get the fuck up.”

The dude closes his eyes in anguish, the color drained off his face, off his lips especially. Josh tugs him by his hood slightly.

“Gonna give up so easily?”

He shakes his head, not taking a step forward.

The wind gets angrier, crawling underneath Josh’s beanie. He just wants to hear _ I can’t do this anymore _ from the dude. He keeps breathing like a dog, gulping the air with his stomach as he finally straightens back up and licks his dry lips. He gets even paler if it’s possible.

“You wanted to talk, what now?” Josh continues, almost stepping over the line of abuse. “See? Sport’s not your thing. You’d better become a prostitute.”

“I’d be the worst whore you’ve ever seen,” the dude hacks up. “I’m Tyler.”

He doesn’t offer a hand to shake.

“Well you can always find a creep with weird kinks. I’m Josh.”

Josh imagines the way Tyler got beaten — images flash in front of Josh’s eyes like short flashbacks. A kick in the chest — a side punch in the jaw — an uppercut, and he hits the floor, with the foot of his foe pressed to his neck. Heavy fist hits the temple, and Tyler closes his eyes.

Tyler’s stomach growls, and there’s nothing healthy about it.

“Oh fuck,” Tyler lurches forward with his fist pressed to his mouth.

“Shit, are you serious?”

Josh knows what it’s like to be starving, and Tyler retches out nothing, fighting the spasm and leaning his back against the column. His hand is pressed to his stomach, he tries to not wince when it grumbles again. His cheeks are light green against the blackening bruises.

“What do I have to do to get a TRENCH membership?” he asks.

“Is this the question you’ve been chasing me for?”

Josh looks at the clock on his phone — his daily schedule went downhill. Tyler throws his head back and swallows the saliva that gathers in the corners of his mouth. If he’s going to puke, Josh has no desire to watch it. He unzips his pocket, almost twisting it out nervously, and takes out a protein bar. Empty stomach is a killer.

“Eat. And shut the fuck up,” Josh shoves a bar into Tyler’s clammy palm. He glances at it as if he’s never seen one this close.

Josh doesn’t wait for a _ thanks_, he doesn’t look at Tyler and just runs away, unscrewing the cap and swallowing a pill. He ignores the rules about consuming some food first, letting the medicine erode his insides.

Josh doesn’t care whether Tyler is eating or not.

***

Both of them keep coming to the basement so frequently Josh witnesses almost all of the stages of Tyler’s bruises’ healing — the shades get lighter, he keeps scratching his neck as if he’s trying to scrub off all of the colors. He doesn’t attempt to make it to the ring anymore. But he is stubborn nevertheless.

Josh’s spirit gets flattened out before the fight one day.

“Who the fuck always lets this druggie in?”

Josh leans in, listening.

“Why the hell the new fucker doesn’t let us earn our money?”

“Kenny and friends want to talk to him _ again_. He must stop trying to sell this synthetic shit.”

Josh stands right behind them, catching a few more details of their conversation.

“Look at him. He’s here again, that one, with the hood on.”

Tyler is not the only guy here who’s wearing a hood, but he’s the only one who matches the description. A druggie. Josh wants to bang his head against the wall — something in the secret folder of his mind kept screaming at him that Tyler’s sudden bout of nausea could happen not only because of hunger. He’s a rotting rat in society; he’s unsteady as Josh can see, and he breathes out heavily through his nose. If Tyler really sells drugs, then he’s chosen the wrong territory — but this could explain where he got all the money to bribe Mark.

“I’m gonna beat the truth out of him.” 

Josh sheds his shirt off and steps into the ring. Being an amateur fighter has its pros and cons, and Josh has always been told he’s a lucky one — he’s been knocked out once or twice or more, but he’s never experienced weird changes in his system afterwards.

And here’s his opponent, Josh looks at him as if he’s just a meat to roast. He’s not violent, but this is his sort of part-time job, so he has to be responsible. Their time is limitless, the one who can’t get up is a loser. They’re not wearing boxing gloves, all the punches are _ naked_, not softened, and Josh tests the dude in front of him. His nickname is Tiger, and he attacks Josh with a roar. Josh dodges the punch, keeping up a block to protect his jaw from breaking; his forearm aches from getting yanked away from his face.

“Here we go, sweetie,” Tiger purrs, baring his sharpened teeth.

There are black and orange lines tattooed on his shoulders and on his back, just to confirm his nickname, and he’s crawling, getting ready to pounce on Josh like a dragon. The crowd is chanting their names. Josh’s fist flies into Tiger’s torso, making him bend over, and Josh is about to finish the fight, tasting the sweat and victory on his tongue, but when he squats down to aim for Tiger’s jaw better, he suddenly jumps up and throws Josh off of himself; he’s a few pounds heavier but Josh rolls over to avoid the punch. Tiger hisses as his knuckles slam against the floor.

They get up at the same time.

_ ‘Knock him down so you can knock him out,’ _ Josh’s inner voice says.

But Tiger is fast.

Josh is disoriented when he’s being grabbed by the back of his neck and slammed into a restrictive grid, he can only see a red splatter and a painful numbness in his eyebrow. He’s sure a patch of his skin is sticking to a metal at his eye level. Josh clings up the grid just to stay in a vertical position while Brendon is counting the seconds.

“One. Two. Three. Four. Five.”

“Gonna change your nickname from Spooky to _ Punching Bag_, Dun?”

Tiger is smiling, sticking his tongue out — it’s forked.

“Six. Seven. Eight — knock-down — nine, yes, he’s getting up!”

Josh gets up despite the low-kick and a hit in his stomach a second later. A capsule with adrenaline inside of him bursts, filling his veins with energy, but it’s a lie. He only has a minute before falling down like a sack, and Tiger — no, two Tigers — are beckoning him, and Josh obeys like a zombie. All the sores on his hands are open, bleeding and feeding the fight and the audience, and Josh’s brain is snapping in and out.

_ ‘Raise your fucking hand,’ _ he orders to himself. _ ‘One more time.’ _

And he’s involuntarily using Tiger’s trick to use it against him, he’s too groggy to figure out who is that _ Jim _ the crowd is cheering for.

Tiger’s here to grip his arms again, hissing like a snake and moving like a cat, and Josh is half blind due to all the blood spurting out of the laceration. Josh just swipes him out with one fast motion, striking him in the spot under his jaw, and Tiger falls flat on his back with his head lolled to his shoulder.

Brendon is busting around counting the seconds for Tiger now. Tiger doesn’t get up on the count of eight, or ten, or twelve. His eyes only flicker open when Brendon says _ twenty-one_, and Josh’s hand is raised by him.

Josh slams down to his knees as soon as they take Tiger out of the ring; Josh hears the applauding, it hurts his head even more, and he can only watch a plethora of red drops dotting the floor between his knees. His guts hurt too, he’s not sure if he can walk on his own.

“Get up,” strong hands slide underneath his sweaty armpits. Josh’s mouth opens in a silent cry as all of his bones and flesh seem to be blended together. “Get up, I said. You won, so do me a favor and act like a fucking winner.”

It’s Michael, one of TRENCH members and sort of a local security guard. Josh lets him tug his beanie off and press it to his split brow, then replacing his own hand with Josh’s.

“Hold it there and try not to pass out. Do you hear me? Do you _ fucking _ hear me, Dun?”

Josh nods.

“I don’t hear you.”

Michael keeps dragging Josh to a room that is a security office.

“Yeah.”

“Louder.”

“Fuck your tests,” Josh slurs. He can barely hear himself through the pounding in his ears.

“You owe me a beer,” Michael helps Josh sit down onto the chair and lean onto a cool wall.

Josh’s eyelids are heavy, and the room is rather blurred; the outlines get sharpened when he gets slapped on his cheek.

“Eyes. Open.”

Michael used to speak in orders.

Josh’s thoughts reel over Tyler again.

“I gotta go.”

Josh’s body denies its motor functions so he lands on his ass, the chair creaks slightly. He’s disappointed, the last time he felt so lightheaded was when he got drunk after getting his driving license — it didn’t end well back then. But Michael is not one of his college friends — Josh’s tongue always stumbles over this word — so when Michael says ‘sit and wait’, it’s better sit and wait, indeed.

“You can’t even drive tonight dude,” one more voice chimes in; Mark tosses a packed bunch of bills onto Josh’s lap.

“Oh, come on.”

This is it, Josh doesn’t need the two of them to babysit him when he has to find Tyler and make him never come to TRENCH — he doesn’t want to resort to a broken bone, but if Tyler doesn’t get the hints, he can’t help.

_ The newcomer sells shit. _ No one isn’t going to do anything until at least one TRENCH member lands himself to a hospital, overdosed.

Josh’s brow isn’t bleeding as he can feel, his beanie is covered with a dark crust when he pulls it back onto his head. He grabs a wet towel to wipe bloody trails off his face, neck and chest, finding a few more spots on his pants.

“Do I look like I killed somebody?”

“You look like you’ve just climbed out of your grave,” Mark huffs, concerned.

“Good.”

The fog in his head is gone, and a few sips of cold water make his life better along with a painkiller.

Michael crosses his arms over his chest.

“Not gonna celebrate with us, dude?”

“I’m driving,” Josh says. “I have work tomorrow.”

He doesn’t lie, if Heaton closes his eyes at Josh’s bruises, it doesn’t mean he wouldn’t fire him for his hangover.

They don’t say anything what best friends would have said, they don’t block his path to a locker room where he’s lucky enough to find his locker closed. Josh hasn’t seen his reflection yet, he has to wait until he makes it to his car to check himself in a rearview mirror. He touches the gauges in his earlobes, they’re still here though it’s not safe. When he just joined TRENCH, he was dumb enough to leave a silver ring in his nostril and paid a violent price for it — he got his nose broken, and the piercing was ripped out of his flesh, mangling his skin; the slime and blood flowing out of his nose were about to drown the basement. The only thing Josh could think about before passing out, was _ ‘how good that I got rid of that lip ring beforehand.’ _He has a scar on his left nostril, mimicking his piercing. He can’t breathe normally sometimes because the cartilage got slightly displaced. Josh tries not to focus on it.

His overstrained muscles beg for a hot shower, he’s still dizzy, but he has to check the rumors and make it home just to wake up at 5 am and go for a jog again. It’s a closed circle.

When he leaves the basement, he’s about to beat every guy wearing a black hoodie that crosses his way. Though he finds the _ right guy _ pretty soon. Josh detects him by his nervous gestures and by the jerking of his head — all of his moves are way too harsh. He’s standing beside a brick wall with a yellow sign TRENCH just above him.

“You, wait,” Josh barks out. Even though Tyler isn’t going anywhere.

He breathes out a sigh of relief.

And Josh is gonna find out what he’s doing here when all the fighters have already left. Tyler moves, and Josh makes a dash towards him, ramming him into the wall — Tyler’s teeth are chattering, and his pupils are dilated, black holes swallow his irises.

“What are you on?”

Josh’s being painfully straightforward, and Tyler can’t give him a proper answer as Josh’s forearm is pressed tightly to his Adam’s apple, sharp and _ alive _ against Josh’s skin. He doesn’t notice it, but he presses harder, asking the same question.

Tyler wheezes. His lips are pale, bluish even, as he sucks the air in.

“Holy fuck, man. Are you this _ weak?” _

Josh thinks about the bruises that might appear on Tyler’s neck soon. He lets him go, and Tyler doubles over just like during their jogging.

“It… was a good fight,” he manages. “You were my bet, Josh.”

He’s helpless, leaning his shoulder against the wall and staring at the ground. Josh could’ve hit him in the liver and knock him down instead of talking. Tyler isn’t even trying to protect himself as if he doesn’t give a single fuck, and this is somehow. Thrilling.

“What are you selling?”

Josh pulls him by his hair, lifting his head up, just to show him how inappropriate his hairstyle is. He expects to get a groan, a moan or some reaction, but Tyler only says,

“You’re bleeding.”

Josh thinks he’s going to continue with a smarmy _ ‘I have something for you’ _ so typical for drug-dealers. There’s the wetness on Josh’s forehead, right underneath his beanie. Josh jostles him, and Tyler steadies himself against the wall.

“You can punch me, I don’t mind.”

“Shut up, Durden.”

“All the stuff is mine,” Tyler’s hand slides into his jeans pocket. A small baggie with three white pills is like evidence. “See? I’m not selling them, not even trying to convince anyone to take one. Extasy. Cheap crap. Whatever.”

Josh thought Tyler would be wiggling out of his grasp, but he’s just telling something that he thinks is truth.

“I don’t know what they were looking for, but they twisted my pockets inside out, and dude, I don’t even remember what happened after, or maybe I just don’t want to?” Tyler laughs. Raucously, on the brink of crying.

Josh wonders how he can stay this _ sane _ when his brain is crossed out with _ X_.

“Why do you keep coming?”

“Because I want them to beat my habits out of me.”

It’s not him, it’s just a drug talking, and Josh can still beat him to dust, but his fist is a heavy as a lead so he can’t even raise his hand. There’s a slight hue of yellow on the side of Tyler’s face, Josh knows how nasty this injury might be.

Josh’s head is pounding, his palm is bloody as he touches his brow. He can predict his clients’ obnoxious glances. Old ladies don’t want to communicate with a man who looks like this — nobody wants.

Tyler shoves his pills back into his pocket.

“I’m fighting my addictions.”

He wipes his nose on his sleeve, exposing the lines on his wrist again.

“I don’t care,” Josh doesn’t care.

He wants to think that it’s just a trickle of sweat on his face.

***

Josh attends TRENCH club twice a week, just watching the crowd. He tries to spot a familiar figure with the hood on. 

Josh’s reflexes are dead, his back hurts. Mark asks him when he’s gonna get back to fighting; Josh says that he’s waiting until he stops pissing blood. Mark chuckles as if it’s a joke.

“People been asking about you.”

“The junkie’s not fighting either,” Josh utters. “I don’t wanna see him around.”

Josh’s pockets and his fridge are empty.

They’re sitting in Michael’s room when the show is over, not quite having common interests apart from fighting. And money. And this beer that makes Josh want to throw up as soon as he takes a sip.

“Do you ever regret joining TRENCH?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Because you know,” Michael looks at the bottle in his hand thoughtfully. “I don’t see myself as one of you guys. Well, I tried, you know, and it’s just not my cup of tea.”

Josh remembers Michael’s first fight — _ their _ first fight; Josh was the unlucky one to be paired up with him.

“I’d never tell it wasn’t your cup of tea. Your right hook said otherwise.”

“Yeah. We spent more time getting you back to senses than your fight lasted,” Mark pushes Josh with his elbow.

“I didn’t fucking know he was allowed to strike me down in the base of my skull,” Josh bristles. “That was against the rules.”

“I was told there were no rules,” Michael shrugs. “You couldn’t just protect yourself properly, admit it.”

“Yeah,” Josh nods. “No one wanted to fight with you afterwards. You could’ve been the best fighter over there, but you preferred to be just a security.”

“I don’t enjoy smashing people’s faces, you know.”

“Do me a favor and never let that dude Tyler into the basement ever again.”

And Michael says,

“He’s super sneaky.”

Josh can’t deny.

Mark drinks his beer in silence.

***

Josh bandages his knee before going out for a jog, he puts a warming tape on his shoulder and on his elbow. He’s getting ready to get back to TRENCH as a fighter — they’ve welcomed a few new members which is interesting though Josh sucks at communicating with people. Tyler finally gets lost somewhere, his facial traits get erased from Josh’s memory little by little. But he’d still identify Tyler by his tattoo or by his abnormally wide pupils.

Abdominal pains and a bloody piss in the toilet remind Josh of him, these are the symptoms of a newcomer, of a fresh meat in the club. Josh takes it in a philosophically apathetic way, flushing the fluids, it’s just one of his daily chores. A set of analgesics would make him feel better for a while. And then he would text his brother for the first time this month, something like_ ‘hey Jordy, wassup’ _ and never get a response even though Jordan reads his message. Josh is a failure.

He goes to cut a lawn, and an angry Cooper is standing near his fence, throwing roaches onto the patch of grass.

“An earth shouldn’t hold a prick like you,” he spits out.

“Good morning,” Josh says. 

There’s nothing unusual in his neighbor’s rudeness, sometimes Josh thinks he’s just got Tourettes. He begins to cut the grass, the smell is relaxing, and Cooper stays silent for only a minute before saying,

“The Judgment day is coming.”

Josh ignores him, he hasn’t bought a new pair of earbuds yet, so he’s forced to listen to the old man through the buzzing of a lawn mower. And well, when he begins to think that he’s found a way to restrain Cooper, a rock hits his shoulder blade.

“Hey! Are you fucking insane?”

Josh stops, and Cooper bangs his crutch on the fence, calling Josh a sinner, and that even burning in Hell is much better than being his neighbor.

“Same,” Josh exhales angrily. “Hope you’re gonna burn in Hell soon.”

He’s sure Cooper doesn’t hear him, because he’s half deaf already. But another rock hits Josh’s thigh with a pinpoint accuracy.

“It’s not funny!”

It’s just not one of Josh’s lucky days.

“I’ll chop your fucking dick off!”

Josh can barely cover his head with his hands when another stone bombards him — he softens the hit, but a sharp edge hurts the back of his hand, and a fresh scar on his brow is about to get opened again.

“This is my ground, you worthless piece of shit!”

One more pebble ricochets off Josh’s hunched spine, and he gives up, taking his lawn mower and heading back home. He can’t understand how such a scrawny man can be this strong.

But well, he’s at least three times older than Josh, so he hopes the nature’s on his side.

***

He’s all feverish, huddling into his oversized hoodie as he stands at the counter. People come and go, and Josh rarely looks at their faces. Sometimes they strike him down with these ‘don’t you remember me?’, and then Josh says that he’s bad at remembering their faces. They look at him as if they’re about to kill him, nothing more and nothing less.

“Dun, move!” yells Heaton.

Josh rubs the side of his face and goes to take a hose not to piss off one of their VIP clients. He doesn’t care that they’re treating him like shit, he purposely lets them do this just to fuel up his inner anger and splash it out when he’s in the ring.

He wants to be intimidating, spooky.

But he’s just a beaten and messed up dude who’s got no balls to backtalk with his boss.

He lets it go this way.

***

The lights in the laundromat flicker every once a while. This place reminds Josh of a morgue, it’s empty with only its owner sleeping at the table in the hallway. It’s almost 3 am; Josh got a sudden bout of insomnia as Cooper kept kicking the wall.

Josh stumbles and drops his laundry bucket.

“Dammit,” he crouches down to pick his clothes back inside.

The air smells like sanitizer, but the dirt is still there. Josh would like to drink a cocktail of a straight chlorine and bleacher and die in seizures just for fun. He’s not sorting his things since they’re mostly black and grey. The washer purrs steadily, and Josh can barely keep his eyes open; he’s supposed to get up at 5 am again. So when he hears the voice, he thinks he’s dreaming already.

“Hi, Josh.”

Josh finds himself gripping at the edge of the washer when he sees the silhouette coming out of the darkest corner.

“Come on, what the Hell,” Josh groans.

He didn’t mean to disturb somebody’s sleep.

Tyler’s hair is ruffled, he rubs his shoulders as he approaches Josh; he’s limping, and his nose is wrinkled as if he’s about to sneeze. The lights flicker again, and Josh sees Tyler’s hoodie on the floor.

“Didn’t know you’re washing your things here.”

“Do I look like a person who’s got a lot of clothes to wash?” Tyler raises his eyebrow. “I remember the times when I had friends, and look at me now — I don’t even have a place to stay for a night.”

Josh’s brain is buzzing, the pressure over his ears is growing.

“Shut up.”

“No, I tried to make music and slipped, and I just needed their _ fucking help_, but they just ignored me —”

“Shut. The fuck. Up,” Josh hits the side of the washer, turning to Tyler abruptly and making him pull away.

He’s not in the mood. Like, in general. Tyler’s pupils seem to be abnormally big, and it’s not the fault of shitty lights.

Josh’s nose is suddenly blocked, he can’t breathe.

“Are you, like, drugged?”

“Maybe,” Tyler shrugs, leaning on the side of the washer. “Why does it bother you?”

“It doesn’t.”

Josh looks at the timer; he can still go shopping, but he doesn’t have any cash.

“Really? You _ don’t care?” _

“I don’t,” Josh says firmly.

Josh can’t even remember when was the last time he experienced such a close contact except his fights, but this one is, in fact, different. Tyler keeps asking him why he doesn’t give a _ fuck_, emphasizing the last word; Josh would’ve reacted much faster if he wasn’t this exhausted. Tyler’s arms are way too long as he stumbles towards Josh again, pressing his damp palm to his crotch and gripping his balls through his pants.

Josh isn’t even sure if he struggles.

“What?” 

Tyler’s grinding into his thigh, surrendering to an animal instinct; he grits his teeth, his frictions are hasty, he replaces his hand from Josh’s groin to his shoulders, clutching them to the point of bruising them. Josh can simply knock him out right now, he’s never been touch-starved. But here he is, standing in the middle of a laundromat and waiting for a junkie next to him to come in his pants. Tyler presses his forehead to Josh’s neck, panting and wheezing, and Josh finally unclips his fingers from his upper arms.

“Why can’t we just do that?” Tyler explodes, pressing the heels of his palms tightly to his eyes. “Why the fuck are you looking at me like that?”

Josh wants to punch him, he always does, he lost his money because of Tyler, but his dick is hard in his pants, all the adrenaline flows in funny ways, and Josh wants. Josh wants him, he hasn’t had reckless one-night stands for forever. 

He’s not ready, just curious.

He can’t look away from the boner in Tyler’s jeans; Tyler doesn’t look ashamed as he thrusts his hand down the waistband and exhales a relieved _ o-oh_, his eyelids flutter, head thrown back. The small of his back is pressed to the side of a washer as he’s working on getting himself off right in front of Josh.

“Wait,” Josh swallows. “Turn around.”

His underwear is about to stick to his balls already, he’s hitting the rock bottom when Tyler pulls his jeans down along with his boxers and bends. Josh can’t fight him, but he can fuck him, at least. Josh hugs him from behind, and Tyler raises his head up, hitting Josh’s nose; Josh sees the sparkles, almost ready to feel the trickle above his upper lip.

“Fuck you,” Josh hisses through his teeth.

They don’t have a condom, they don’t even have lube so the process brings more difficulties than joy. Josh pushes in, and Tyler leans forward, spreading his arms to balance himself against a buzzing washer and somehow hold their weight. He’s about to moan and touch himself again while Josh goes harder, getting a low whine in response. He suddenly thinks that Tyler lets out a groan of pain, because it’s way too dry, and Josh’s throbbing dick is getting sore. He wants to pull out instantly, he’s a coward, but when he’s halfway out, Tyler exhales,

“Continue.”

Nothing more.

Josh continues.

Tyler controls it, shoving his hips backwards, and Josh is dizzy, the smell of chlorine is so vivid he can almost taste it. Tyler’s t-shirt is wet, sticking to his shoulder blades, and his back is hunched as Josh fucks the daylights out of him. Josh oscillates in his pre-orgasmic condition, tensed up, his head begins to ache.

“Pull out when… You’re about to finish,” Tyler gibbers out.

Josh’s hand is slick as he touches Tyler’s dick again, feeling his stomach coil up, and his legs begin to tremble — he comes quicker than he thought he would, he jerks his dick out of Tyler’s ass as his come sprays his jeans and his thighs. Josh’s brain vibrates, _ what has he done, he’s just had sex with a guy who was obviously high. _

Josh is not okay.

He can only hear his own anxious-ridden heartbeat and his own breathing in his ears. Josh’s mouth waters; he only manages to shove his dick back into his briefs and turn away as he vomits. He doubles over from the force of it, a nasty mush almost hits his toes.

“Fuck,” Josh gasps, clutching at his chest and falling to his knees.

He doesn’t know what could go wrong in his system. He needs to get up and make it to the restroom without throwing up even more. Tyler’s reaction is inadequate, he laughs, sliding his back down the wall and wincing as his ass hits the floor.

“Holy shit, Josh, look at this. You can’t even communicate with me without twisting your guts inside out. Don’t lie to yourself — I’d be a terrible whore.”

And he laughs some more, he’s still hard.

Tyler doesn’t care about Josh’s puke on the floor.

Josh’s clothes are still twirling inside of the washer as Tyler leans to it, pressing his knees to his chest and shoving his hand in between them; he’s jerking off, he clamps his hand over his mouth while Josh clamps his hand over his own mouth, because his stomach isn’t completely empty, it seems. He hiccups, and Tyler’s head hits against the wall as he moves his hand under his t-shirt, faster, faster, and Josh can’t stop_ watching. _ Tyler gulps for air, suddenly relaxing and rolling his half-lidded eyes. There’s an unhealthy blush on his cheeks, his breathing is harsh, and Josh suddenly needs to get out of this damn place.

His mouth still tastes like bile, his insides roll as Tyler wipes his fingers on his t-shirt. He straightens his legs, and Josh steps over them and opens the washer, fishing his stuff out of it and compressing it into a laundry basket. It’s still wet, it smells somehow nice, unlike Tyler and a puddle of vomit on the floor. Josh looks for a mop but doesn’t find any. He doesn’t want to get caught there along with an almost passed-out Tyler whose jeans are still undone.

“Get up,” Josh kicks his shin gently. “Tyler.”

This name has an acidic flavor.

Tyler doesn’t look up at him, rubbing his temple with his open palm; Josh sighs, grabs him by his shoulders and yanks him up, steadying him against the wall.

“Take your hoodie and let’s go,” Josh says dryly.

“Wh-why?”

Tyler’s so out of everything; he keeps holding his jeans with both of his hands, not understanding that he has to simply zip them up. It takes him a minute to figure it out. His jeans are stained white, on the front and on his back pockets, and Josh feels nauseous again. It’s like he’s just used Tyler. It’s like Tyler used himself.

Josh makes sure Tyler can still move, touching his butt every so often as he steps down the row of washers and picks his hoodie off the floor, almost falling down. Josh curses and catches him by the back of his shirt, yanking him up again.

“Thanks,” Tyler says.

“Move.”

Although they should’ve started another washing session instead.

***

Josh doesn’t want local freaks to take advantage of a passed out Tyler so he watches him intently as they cross the road.

“The whores used to get money. And I’m just,” Tyler stumbles over the threshold. “I’m getting a roof above my head.”

He’s about to blink away his sentimental tears. Josh’s head hurts. He doesn’t want to share his couch with Tyler, but Tyler doesn’t ask for it. He bunches up his hoodie and throws it on the floor, curling into himself. Tyler covers his eyes with his palm, it seems that he falls asleep as soon as he relaxes. His veins aren’t bruised, and Josh can only wonder what he’s taken. Josh doesn’t have enough time to sleep, a panic attack is near; for a second Josh feels like he might throw up again. He doesn’t know what to do if Tyler is going to die of seizures during a bad trip, he doesn’t know what to do in general.

“Calm down,” Josh tells to himself. “I just need to calm down.”

He can’t be sure that Tyler isn’t going to steal his shitty TV from the living room. Josh flops down onto a sagged couch, he’s got no energy to take care of his laundry basket. Josh doesn’t know what creeps him out more — the fact that they had sex or getting a fake ‘I don’t remember anything’ from Tyler in the morning.

Josh checks his alarm clock once again. 

Heaton is going to kill him tomorrow.

***

Josh pays for his last night’s sins. His head feels bloated, his morning jog doesn’t wake him up at all. Josh’s day passes in a blur — there’s an endless line of people, wanting, waiting something from him, and Josh only gets one bathroom break which is quite degrading.

Heaton says he’s doing good.

Josh would kill him for a large cup of coffee.

He’s about to pray to God when he leaves the gas station, thoughts chained to Tyler in his house. What if he’s dead, what if he’s alive, what if he’s not real. Josh stops by a drive-thru café and buys _ two _ giant bags of Chinese food. Maybe he’s just too hungry. Must be.

His car sneezes. Josh shivers when he approaches the front door.

Josh is met by a chilly wind roaming the hallway; there are no signs of Tyler except his black hoodie on the floor in the corner. The bags in Josh’s arms are suddenly too heavy, he puts them onto a small table and goes to close the window. Tyler used it to sneak away.

Tyler’s hoodie smells like chlorine. It’s funny.

Josh is going to devour both sets of food.

He turns the TV on, shoveling pieces of chicken and rice into his mouth — it’s too spicy, but he’s too hungry to care. 

There is a note on the fridge: _ ‘you’re snoring,’ _it reads. Josh hates Tyler’s sense of humor. He is startled when he hears a banging noise from the side of both the wall and the window — the latter gets him concerned. Josh goes to check it, the curtains cover the sight; he moves them just to see Tyler knocking on the glass almost politely.

“Should’ve used the door,” Josh grumbles, opening the window. “Wanna get your shit back?”

Tyler climbs inside and sticks his tongue out — there’s a paper square on it, green and yellow decorated with a smiley face. He gives Josh a second to appraise it.

“I’m traveling.”

This unhealthy blush on his cheeks is back as he dives into his hoodie and hugs himself.

“Get out,” Josh says. “No. Fuck, you’re gonna think I’m an asshole, right?”

He can’t tell if he cares. Tyler sniffles, sitting on the couch and placing his feet onto the small table.

“I don’t have a place to go.”

“So what?”

Tyler throws his head back and gives Josh a blissful smile.

“No idea.”

Tyler rubs his face, almost wiping his lips off it. Josh doesn’t want his house to turn to a shelter.

Tyler takes a TV remote and turns the volume off.

“I don’t believe what they’re showing there.”

“Me neither.”

They sit like this for a while before Tyler says,

“I have a nasty secret.”

“Have you killed anybody?”

“What? No,” Tyler shakes his head. “When I was a teen, I was regularly jerking off thinking of Jason Statham.”

He says it as if it’s a mystery; he even touches his groin as if to check how his body reacts to this name these days. Josh’s teenage crush was _ Jessica Rabbit, _ and he’d used a ton of tissues just to figure out that her cartoonish body couldn’t make him want her _ for real. _But that was a funny sexual experience.

“Much worse. You’d better kill your pimp, or something,” Josh laughs, almost sincerely.

“Working for my own pleasure,” Tyler fends off. “Did you like my lacy underwear?”

“Well, if you call holes in seams laces… Then… They were terrible, man.”

Josh doesn’t even try to flirt. Tyler stares into the void with his bloodshot eyes wide open, there’s the drool drying in the corner of his mouth. Josh pushes him and Tyler lets out a tiny squeal.

“Do you have more shit? Gimme.” 

Josh’s hands sweat and tremble in anticipation.

“Wanna be my co-pilot?”

“Your phantom passenger,” Josh pushes him once again. “Come on. I’m not gonna change my minds.”

He might totally change his minds; he’s a coward, but he just needs to feel acid on his tongue.

“Even your orgasm made you puke,” Tyler points out. “I don’t think you can handle LSD, but guess what? I don’t give a shit.”

This sounds oddly caring.

“And then you’ll share one more _ protein shake _ with me,” Tyler giggles.

“You still have some of it spilled all over your jeans.”

This is disgusting. Tyler looks at the ceiling thoughtfully, slipping his fingers into his dirty pocket and fishing out a small square of paper; it sticks to his fingertip. There’s no package, no nothing. Tyler raises his eyebrows, Josh bends a little and licks the venom off Tyler’s finger. He avoids sucking on Tyler’s bitten nail, swallowing a paper-y mush and waiting.

“There’s just a quarter, for, you know, your safety,” Tyler hums. “This shit’s quality might be shitty.”

He laughs as if he’s joking.

“Oh. Of course.”

Josh hears a low growling from his basement. Funny enough, considering that Josh doesn’t have a basement.

Tyler watches him, interested, mouthing a ‘what do you feel?’ Josh replies his question mentally. He’s gonna see giant spheres of the planets outside, he’s gonna get abducted by extraterrestrial civilizations; his couch is a spaceship. His house is a galaxy itself, Cooper is a space pirate, and his crutch is his parrot who doesn’t speak, just tock-tock-tocking holes in Josh’s walls. Josh blinks, the room is glued to his eyelids, moving along with his eyelashes and making his eyes drip with neon tears. He doesn’t know which way he’s going, but he can feel his way around, he can feel Tyler’s shoulder under his cheek, and there are the silhouettes of aliens roaming his living room. Josh can’t hide from them. He doesn’t need it, he doesn’t need to leave his couch to travel. He feels like that man from the X-files intro, sliding down into a deep violet-blue funnel just to emerge on the other side. But he doesn’t fall to atoms.

He’s never felt this complete.

Josh wants to follow the lights and morph to someone else.

Reality is depressing and gray as Josh comes to; he moves his hand and touches a tuft of fur that he thinks belongs to the one who lives in his nonexistent basement. Second later he realizes it’s just Tyler’s hair, he sits on the floor, leaning his back against the side of Josh’s couch. He’s watching TV and eating, one box in his hands and another one is lying empty on the floor.

Josh is sure he doesn’t have anything except spoiled milk in his fridge.

“Hi,” Tyler says as Josh touches his hair again.

Josh’s cheeks are itching, his mouth is dry — he wishes Tyler could hand him a bottle of water, which doesn’t happen.

“It’s been four hours,” Tyler says. “It didn’t look like a bad trip.”

Josh blinks again, this time not feeling that his eyelids stick together vertically.

“I have a fight tomorrow.”

Josh’s head spins just like it does after a strong punch in the jaw. His neck aches. His stomach contracts with nothing but hunger in it, and he solemnly realizes he has no strength or desire to buy food.

“I ordered pizza,” Tyler says. “It arrived while you were hunting your little green men.”

And, before Josh asks the most suitable question, Tyler adds,

“I had some cash to pay for it, don’t worry.”

Josh’s trip is just blooming up.

***

The money he wins is enough to buy a train ticket to his hometown. Josh hasn’t been there since everything changed, his conscience has been gnawing him, and it never stops doing so as he approaches a football field. He’s fifteen minutes late. But he sees Jordan’s curly hair and his frown as he runs, he can do it. Jordan holds his cane between his knees, tapping it on the ground. The last night fight left Josh with a swollen nose that started bleeding again this morning and a mess of blood and scab on his hands.

“I’m sorry,” Josh exhales instead of greeting.

Jordan watches the guys running circles on the field.

“Whatever.”

And Josh makes one more mistake, asking,

“How are you doing, man?”

“Stop pretending that you care.”

Josh can read Jordan’s anger, he’s voluntarily triggering himself by watching the players warming up.

“I’m here to help.” 

Josh tries, he’d give Jordan his card right now, all the money he has.

“You weren’t there when we needed you.”

Josh swallows.

Seeing their mother in a hospital bed wired with tubes and surrounded with beeping equipment was an ordeal. Josh was there when she got admitted, but he was too busy; Josh thought that one visit would be enough. Josh thought another meeting would be arranged in their house on Christmas, but her heart failed the night Josh left the town. Then, there were the funerals, and their widowed father was looking at Josh judgingly, because he couldn’t get back. Everything’s been already cracking. Then Jordan got injured, chained to his cane.

“I need therapy,” Jordan says. He doesn’t pay attention to Josh’s bruises.

“I can pay for it,” Josh offers, trying not to move so much as the hematoma on his ribs begins to swell up.

“You’re only thinking about yourself. Want to make yourself feel less guilty, right? You will never turn back time to apologize to our mother.”

Well maybe, she’ll forgive him when he dies.

“I needed to move forward.”

“You just ran away.”

“I didn’t!” Josh is about to explode. “I was helping her, I was sending money until I lost that fucking job! It’s wasn’t my fucking fault that she passed away, I needed to survive, too, and now you’re looking at me like I’m a murderer?”

“She just wanted you to stay with her until the end, it was her last wish,” Jordan is non-committal. “You lost everything, and this is just too sad, Josh.”

Thinking of climbing up the career ladder while their mother was sick was the worst decision Josh has ever made in his life. Jordan hates him for it, hates him for not sitting with him in the emergency room while the doctors tried to figure out his diagnosis. Josh only remembers patting his shoulder once before leaving.

“The session starts at seven,” Jordan gets up. “I need to go.”

Josh jumps up on his feet.

“I’ll go with you.”

“Fuck off.”

Jordan hobbles away, he has always been strong and independent. And this is their closed circle. Josh doesn’t have anything else to do except buy a ticket back to the hole that he calls his home. He tries to dodge all the destructive glances the strangers are throwing at him.

Cooper reminds Josh of _ his _ Jordan, and Josh needs a dose of nostalgia as soon as he gets home; he only has a few family photos tucked in between the pages of the _ Secret window, secret garden _ book. He looks at a Polaroid picture taken at the party with their friends: Josh’s hair is red, his nose is all scrunched up as he laughs, and Jordan’s smile is bright. They were so happy just a few years ago, Josh remembers this day so vividly — it was his twenty-fifth birthday.

Josh tucks the picture back between the pages.

“Those dudes didn’t know they were going to get stuck deep in some shit,” this sounds narrative, nothing resembling those _ ‘you, but stronger’ _ moments.

Because right now, Josh doesn’t have his hair, or his friends, or his brother.

***

Tyler isn’t training and it’s noticeable.

Josh wants to shoot Mark dead as he tells him that Tyler’s name is on the participants’ list again.

“Why?” Josh punches the bricks next to Mark’s ear. “I swear I’m gonna break his leg to stop him.”

“He’ll keep coming even with a broken leg,” Mark says darkly. “I think he’s got his motivation.”

Josh pretends he doesn’t get this hint. He shivers as if he’s got the flu; his throat is all sore. He has to get new running shoes not to get them soaked in the puddles of water when he’s jogging in the rain.

“Can we like, reschedule it?”

“No.”

“Great. Dan’s gonna fucking kill him, and it will be the last day of TRENCH.”

“Or just the last day of Tyler,” Mark shrugs. “He still has a chance to win.”

Josh can already hear the screaming of the crowd.

“Don’t lie to yourself.”

He’s glad he’s not Tyler’s opponent for today. Because quitting the fight for the second time would be suspicious. But all of them need money for their quirks, including Tyler — Josh still remembers the planets and spaceships he’s seen. He’s dizzy, coughing into his sleeve, and his nose is all clogged up. Josh sees Tyler going to a locker room, lowering his head yet looking confident. Josh’s violence can’t beat Tyler’s stubbornness.

Brendon is in the ring already, wearing his golden jacket, which is even more annoying. He always looks like he’s about to host a celebration, his quiff is perfectly styled. 

Tyler doesn’t even take his hoodie off while his rival is shirtless, his muscular chest rises and falls. He’s like a bull, and Tyler is like a red flag that’s about to get ripped by the horns. And then he would hoist a white flag, probably.

“Ladies and gentlemen, hello and welcome to the show,” Brendon starts, grabbing the microphone hanging from the ceiling. “I’m glad to introduce our today’s guests.”

Tyler clenches his fists.

“Dan ‘Dragon’ Reynolds and Tyler, um… Tyler Joseph!”

You don’t need a nickname if you’re about to get ripped apart, indeed. 

Brendon waves his hand, and the fight begins. Josh wonders if there was a dumbass who would bet for Tyler to win. Josh would have never done that. It’s easy to get Tyler’s every mistake in one go — he covers his face, the punch strikes him in the chest — Dan literally cackles as he does so, and Tyler gasps for air. He pulls himself together then, he looks Dan in the eyes, but this doesn’t intimidate him.

The crowd cheers.

“Come on, Joseph,” Josh whispers. “Shove this fist up his ass, man,” he’s suddenly so thrilled, he moves closer to the grid. “Careful! Fuck,” Josh facepalms as Tyler gets pinned to the floor.

This is it, and Josh cracks his knuckles as Dan presses his bare foot to the side of Tyler’s face, distorting it. Tyler spits out blood. Brendon counts the seconds, telling it’s a knockdown, and Tyler and Dan get pulled apart from each other. Tyler sits on the heels of his feet, swaying as his nose drips blood into his lap.

“Please, give up,” Josh prays. Tyler is about to meet his death. “Don’t let him do this to you, just — just give up.”

Tyler doesn’t listen to him, he looks groggy as he gets up. He wipes his face on his sleeve and stumbles towards Dan, hitting him in the shoulder; it takes Dan one hooking punch to toss Tyler onto the floor again. Dan kicks him, Tyler pulls his knees to his chest. 

It’s almost over.

Brendon claps his hands for attention, but Tyler heaves himself up _ again_, rubbing his lower stomach with his palm.

Josh doesn’t see who passes Dan _ the chain_, silver and finger-thick; he wraps it around his knuckles and grins. Josh pushes the guys in front of him aside to make it even closer to the ring.

“Stop!”

His voice drowns in the bawling, and Dan is eager to get more points and perform a good show. Tyler swallows rapidly, blood trickles down his chin. He smudges it away with his red hands as he stumbles away and clings to the grid. Tyler doesn’t have a chance to dodge when Dan’s chain-decorated fist hits him in the neck with an awful pop; Tyler rubs his Adam’s apple before Dan lifts him by the front of his hoodie and throws him onto the grid. Tyler lets out a stifled cry as Dan’s fist clips him under the chin. Tyler’s head flies back, tugging his body backwards as he falls, then gets yanked up again and gets thrown into the grid again. He doesn’t get up after that. Dan socks him in the gut, and raises his hands up, roaring.

He’s won much earlier than Brendon admitted it.

And said it.

Watching Tyler getting beaten hurts worse than getting actually beaten. Josh holds himself against the grid, staring at Tyler’s crumpled frame. Blood litters the floor like scattered coins, and a huge guy grabs Tyler by the hood and drags him off the ring; blood keeps falling, Tyler’s head hangs lowly. He doesn’t move as he gets transported to the exit.

Josh wants to follow.

He makes his way through the crowd again, working his shoulders; the room is full of people, and Josh flies into somebody on his way.

“Where’s Joseph?”

“Is he like, your bitch? Line up, fucker!”

Josh’s fist reacts faster than his brain, hitting the dude in the solar plexus. It is better than just to say ‘shut up’. He doesn’t pay any more attention to a doubled over guy behind him, going to the farthest wall; Tyler’s lying in the corner, all the laugh and bustle around don’t bother him. He’s unconscious, his neck is red and blue, his Adam’s apple looks swollen as Josh inspects him closer.

“Hey?” Josh touches his jaw; it must’ve been dislocated. “Tyler?”

Tyler whines lowly.

Josh sits on the bench and props himself against the wall just to check if he can leave TRENCH on his own. But Tyler’s breathing is heavy, and Josh is not an asshole to leave him here like this.

“This is not for you,” Josh says. “You should’ve given up.”

He tugs Tyler by his sleeve, all sticky and blood-stained.

“Come on.”

No one is going to call an ambulance, including Josh; he shakes Tyler awake to get a little help from him. Josh shoves him into a backseat as if he’s a kidnapper. 

“He’s not my bitch,” Josh says firmly.

In the backseat, Tyler moans.

***

Josh lays Tyler down onto the couch in the living room. Tyler’s pretty much out of everything as Josh puts a pillow under his head. Josh has never been this close to a sick person since his mother had fallen ill. He’s wasting his time on a stoner who can’t even fight properly when he can call Jordan and apologize for the thousandth time. Tyler’s blood vessels are ruptured, and Josh should’ve taken a towel to cover the pillow. He doesn’t want to clean Tyler up or invade his personal space at any other level. There’s a bump on his chin; Josh winces as he puts his finger into Tyler’s mouth to check his teeth. He doesn’t find any holes there.

Tyler looks like a bird fallen out of the nest onto the boulders; he wheezes, and Josh turns his head to the side not to let him choke on whatever is coming up his throat. It’d be better to throw a blanket onto the floor and reposition Tyler there not to stain the bed. But it’s too late. Josh gets a pack of green beans from the kitchen and places it onto Tyler’s busted jaw. Tyler’s eyelashes flutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes, letting out a pained moan and shifting the pack lower and lower, stopping at his groin and sticking his thighs together to hold it there.

“Yep it hurts, man. I know,” Josh chuckles softly.

Tyler doesn’t rebel when Josh puts a cold wet cloth onto his head.

Josh can’t figure Tyler’s motives; TRENCH members don’t take him seriously, but _ Josh _ is ashamed. Tyler blinks, staring at him for a few seconds before sliding back into unconsciousness. He tries to open his mouth, but the crust in the corner of his mouth doesn’t let him do so. His lip is torn on the inside, teeth blood-stained like red beads in his mouth. Josh can still reconstruct the fight, reading Tyler’s injuries like a book. Even though he’d been trying to protect his face it’s all beaten now. Josh could have done this to him much earlier and maybe keep him away from TRENCH. Josh throws one more glance at Tyler on the couch before slumping into an armchair and crossing his arms over his chest. He hasn’t slept for ages. Tyler thrashes on the couch, panting, and Josh sinks deeper into the armchair.

His heartbeat matches the banging on the wall. Josh loses his temper and slams his knuckles into the panel, growling out a _ shut up_, and Cooper does, indeed, shut up.

***

When Josh wakes up, he realizes he forgot to set his alarm clock and overslept — no jogging today, no nagging pain in his joints. He rubs the sleep off his eyes just to see an empty couch.

“Expectable,” Josh grumbles and sits up from his half-lying position.

He spoke too soon thinking that his joints wouldn’t ache today — they _ do _ ache, and oh God, _ oh fuck_. Josh can’t bend his neck, and his calves are as rigid as stone as he takes his feet off his long-suffering glass table. He hears the water running in the bathroom, then the noises get replaced with footsteps. Tyler comes in, pressing a towel to his jaw. He looks at Josh, confused, as if he doesn’t remember how he got there.

“Wanna take a painkiller?”

“Got my own,” Tyler slurs, not opening his mouth.

Tyler’s pupils begin to widen. Josh glares at him.

“Should’ve emptied your pockets.”

“You can empty my stomach,” Tyler shrugs and adds, “Is this Heaven?”

Josh glares at him once again.

“Oh this is Hell, got it.”

Josh can barely decipher Tyler’s speech. Tyler doesn’t say anything else, turning away and going to the front door. Josh follows him, smirking when Tyler tries to get it open. Josh hides the keys in his pocket so Tyler can’t get out; he can’t get out through the window either, because he can’t straighten his back as he hunches over the windowsill. His attempts to leave are funny and pathetic so he just strides back to the couch and lies down, turning his face into the pillow.

“The door was too heavy, yeah?”

Tyler doesn’t respond.

Josh clenches his teeth and goes to wet the cloth in the sink; Tyler’s got a fever, and Josh has to go to work, he still feels sick and shaken, and well maybe it’s their common disease.

There’s nothing worse in getting beaten than the day after. And Tyler’s_ day after _ goes like this, he’s occasionally falling asleep then jolting awake and groaning in pain. He doesn’t try to run away when Josh leaves and comes back. Josh isn’t sure if Tyler has even moved. Tyler swallows one more pill in the evening, and Josh doesn’t do anything, he doesn’t join him.

Josh is ready for an encounter with Tyler as he goes to use the bathroom again; Josh doesn’t want Tyler to overdose and die next to his toilet.

“Your shower is much better than the sink in the shopping mall’s restroom,” Tyler says.

Water and soap can’t wash away his whole homeless look.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Wanna be a martyr,” Tyler scoffs. “To suffer for all the shit I’ve done.”

They’re sitting in the kitchen, and Josh feels uncomfortable.

“Eat your soup. It’s gonna get expired tomorrow.” 

Josh doesn’t want to get the answers for his questions anymore.

And Tyler eats, mostly slurping since he can’t open his mouth wide. By the evening, Tyler takes one more pill — the last one, he claims — and sleeps on Josh’s couch. He only wakes up to get a glass of water.

“You have to defend yourself,” Josh says.

“No, I move slow,” Tyler gibbers out. “I wanna stop time.”

This is such a depressing sight, and Josh has changed after joining TRENCH; he wishes he could be more brutal, but he’s mostly broken at the moment. _ Just like Tyler. _His nose begins to bleed again, he stains the towel in the kitchen, and Josh is about to do the laundry again.

“Lines of coke,” Tyler explains. “My nose’s all burnt on the inside.”

Tyler wears his clothes inside out to hide badly washed blood-stains, and Josh has nothing to offer.

“You’re poisoned.”

Josh is a terrible supporter.

On Sunday, Josh stays home, skipping the jog since his legs ache. Tyler still can’t eat and talk properly due to an immobility of his bottom jaw. He picks up at the hole in the side of a couch, sliding his fingers in and out and taking little pieces of the filler out.

“Are you _ this _ lonely, Josh?”

“Are you _ this _ horny you can’t think about anything else?”

“My balls still hurt.”

“Good to know.”

Josh didn’t mean to gloat.

“I need to shave my head,” Tyler says suddenly. “I’m losing because of it.”

Josh raises his brow skeptically.

“Do you really think _ this _ is your problem?”

Tyler combs his fingers through his hair, revealing a few almost bald spots there. It’s messy and unkempt, there’s something resembling a buzzcut on his temples that’s been done a while ago.

“They’re grabbing it.”

“Oh yes, they do.”

Josh isn’t wearing a beanie at the moment, he rubs his scalp with his palm, thinking that it’s time to get his head shaved as well.

Tyler uses his hair trimmer later this evening. Josh catches Tyler when he’s trying to get the chunks of his hair out of the sink, his pupils are dilated as he looks at the mirror. Lack of hair has somehow made his bruises even brighter; Josh stands in the doorframe, blocking Tyler’s way.

“I’m gonna break your spine if I see you in TRENCH again.”

Tyler blinks.

“You can do it now.”

His bottom lip is still swollen, he tugs at it, squeezing it in between his fingers. This move draws blood out of the cut.

“You’ve lost everything,” Josh says.

Tyler spits blood into the sink.

“I need to go,” he rasps out, and Josh knows what he means.

His pockets are empty, there are no smiley faces or X-crossed pills.

Tyler is bored.

Josh refuses to admit that he’s used to Tyler’s breathing, to sleeping in an armchair. But Josh doesn’t hide the keys anymore. Tyler leaves. Josh stands in the driveway; Cooper is here, right behind the fence, he screams that Josh has done terrible things to Tyler.

Tyler pretends he doesn’t notice.

The only good thing about this situation is that Josh is going to sleep on his couch tonight.

***

Tyler comes to Josh two days later. He’s at work, and Tyler doesn’t look like a person who owns a car.

“I’m busy.”

Josh doesn’t want to talk. He just wants it to be done already.

“I have a deal for you,” Tyler scratches his neck.

He then licks his lips; his tongue is covered with a sheen of white slime. Josh turns away from the counter.

“Get lost.” 

If Heaton sees Josh with a dude like this, he is gonna get problems.

“It’s about money.”

Tyler’s still wearing his hoodie inside out.

His jaw is still blackened.

“Do you need money, Josh?”

Josh thinks of the message he’s got this morning, ‘surgery or amputation’ it read, a little note from Jordan just to make Josh suffer harder. Sometimes he simply doesn’t understand why he’s getting punished this hard for just trying to live his own life. 

Tyler takes a KitKat bar and throws the cash onto the counter.

Josh wants to kick him out.

But he lets Tyler buy this damn candy.

***

Tyler doesn’t leave him alone. Josh sees his hunched figure sitting on the front porch.

“Befriended my neighbors already?” Josh chuckles, opening the door.

Tyler sniffles.

“Haven’t seen anyone.”

Josh has no one to keep his house clean for. He’s not living, he’s just existing there, the floors are dirty, and the windows still have Tyler’s fingerprints on them.

“You said you have a deal for me?”

“Yes.”

Tyler’s eyes look black in these lights.

He sways, leaning against the wall.

“What now?”

“Well, my dealer needs a delivery guy.”

Josh can only hurt Tyler with his words.

“Sucking him off for a dose doesn’t help anymore?” 

“Josh, listen —”

“Get the fuck out,” Josh rams him into the door; Tyler squeezes his eyes shut but doesn’t stop talking.

“…you don’t even need to do anything, they won’t know it’s you! You’ll be just given a case and an address, and then… I know this dude, I’ve been doing that shit for him before, and like… Okay, I got caught by the cops once so he had to get my ass out for a… _ special service. _But I’m doing drugs, and he doesn’t trust me anymore. Josh, I swear this shit is real.”

Josh can’t dodge the flow of Tyler’s words; he’s tired of just getting beaten for money and being constantly exhausted. This is not a reason.

“Think about your brother, Jordan, right?”

Josh’s forearm finds its place on Tyler’s throat.

“How did you know?”

Tyler gulps nervously.

“You said it during your trip, remember?”

“Crap,” Josh lets him go. Tyler doesn’t expect that, falling to his knees.

With a great effort Josh holds himself back not to kick him in the ribs.

Tyler coughs, almost pleading,

“It would take like, one hour.” 

Josh presses his fingers to his temples. He’s probably gonna get killed during the mission, but what if it’s good? If he survives and they pay him, Jordan will be able to walk normally again, and if they don’t pay him… Well, he’s not gonna lose anything.

Except his moral principles.

“I wanna talk to this dude,” Josh finally says.

“This would be meaning a _ yes. _ I can give you a phone number, but you’ll have to change your number after the call.”

Tyler’s suddenly calm, the haze falls from his eyes. And there’s a bruise under his jaw, a nasty blue spot behind his ear. Josh doesn’t remember him coming to TRENCH lately.

His hand squeezes his phone in his jeans pocket.

“I need some time to think.”

***

Josh wouldn’t expect to find himself on the outskirts of the town, holding a case in his hands, loaded with heroine. He got a call today, he went to a shabby club and talked to a man wearing a Halloween mask, who gave him a case and more instructions.

“Act like you’re just taking a stroll, kid,” he said.

Josh is a terrible actor, he feels like he’s gonna be sick. This feeling never passes as he stands at the said spot and a man comes to him, just nodding and saying a password phrase.

“Fridays will always better than Sundays.”

“Because Sundays are my suicide days,” Josh responds.

And gives him a case. And gets a bag, full of bills.

“All yours,” the man says. “Just like Big Daddy said.”

Josh doesn’t believe his eyes.

And then he goes to the nearest bank, ready to feed Jordan’s card.

***

It takes three days to get a _ thanks _ from Jordan.

Josh skips the fight, then the second, and Tyler is nowhere to be found — Josh comes to TRENCH to check the crowd, looking for him. Maybe he’s got his prize, maybe he’s lying dead somewhere.

In the evening, he forces himself to go out for a jog. It’s raining, but Josh used to get splashed with raindrops instead of shower. He’s doing it mostly to get rid of anxiety, but it stopped working a while ago.

Since Tyler left, he can say.

Jordan sends him the date of his surgery.

Josh still hasn’t bought new earbuds, so when he hears somebody running after him, he thinks it’s Tyler and feels almost relieved. The fear catches him in its trap when he realizes that it’s _ not Tyler. _

“Get this fucker! It’s him!”

Josh is getting chased, he speeds up, and his morning jog turns to a hunt. Josh jumps over the trashcan, but these dudes are probably fucking Olympic medalists; the distance between them gets shorter and shorter. And Josh gets grabbed by the back of his jacket eventually, slammed into a brick wall. When Josh’s head connects with a rough surface, he understands he’s not running anywhere anytime soon. His blood pulsates in his temples, almost making his skin burst. _ It’s a knockdown. _ It’s a knockdown, and Josh remembers everything he went through in the ring so he tries to get up, but they must be professional boxers, judging by the punches they’re throwing.

“Where’s the money?”

Josh can’t quite comprehend that, standing on his knees next to a pile of trash, feeling like that trash. 

“Where’s the money?”

Josh throws his head up.

“What are you talking about?”

“Do you think selling synthetic shit to us is a smart decision, bitch?”

All Josh can say is ‘I swear I didn’t know,’ but he keeps silent for his own good. But they keep pinning him down to the asphalt, almost making him eat dirt under his face; Josh struggles and turns, managing to get up on his feet again.

“You got the wrong guy.”

They kick him around; when Josh’s head collides with the asphalt for the second time, he’s suddenly about to pass out. He’s frazzled, his fists can’t bring any damage anymore. Josh rolls over again, propping his hands on the ground, but a kick in the ribs makes him fall down again. He feels a violent jerk somewhere inside of him, he’s about to drown in darkness.

“Come on,” he hears. “Don’t turn him to a useless vegetable.”

Another man agrees, Josh can feel his grin without even opening his eyes. He counts the seconds mentally, he diagnoses himself with a knockout. He’s dizzy, and he can only try to curl into himself to protect the bones that haven’t been broken yet.

“Money, Dun.”

Josh wishes he had a different name.

He only presses his palm to the mud underneath him, when a man’s foot flies right into his temple.

Josh doesn’t know what happens next.

***

Josh wonders why that kick didn’t kill him.

Josh regrets it instantly.

The cold is cruel, Josh’s beaten body sticks to the ground numb and frozen, and he’s not even sure is he can move his feet. When he does move, though, his guts and muscles protest; he wipes the blood from underneath his nose, it looks ugly on the back of his hand. He takes a deep breath and tries to warm up his palms, but his fingers have turned to icicles.

“Crap.” 

Josh pinches his nostrils.

Pain strikes down his back, there must be something _ wrong _ with his kidneys again. He’s a fighter, but he’s not made of steel, his tissues are still fragile, and every step Josh takes feels like last one. The pain in his stomach is like a dagger stuck there; Josh holds his palm against his midsection, supporting himself against the wall. His brain isn’t working, but he still has to make it to a bus stop. He can’t see straight, he can barely drag himself down the street; people on his way don’t notice him, Josh gets a buzz in his head at least twice, but he perseveres. No one’s gonna help him if he blacks out — this neighborhood has made people learn the lesson. Josh runs neglecting his pain when he sees the last bus; he manages to hop inside along with two middle-aged women.

Josh holds onto the railings, swaying and feeling the blood drain away from his face as he realizes that he doesn’t have any cash. A sour-tasting wave rises up in his stomach. Passengers avoid looking at him, and throwing up right there and then would be inappropriate. He gags into his palm. This bus shakes too damn much. He tries not to close his eyes but moving frames outside the window make him disoriented. He almost falls when he gets out on his stop, toddling to his house. Josh’s fingers tremble, he presses the door with his back when he’s inside, he slides down and hugs his knees, tightly, as if this helps him glue himself together. He needs to get his pills, eat all of them, _ no _ —

Josh shakes his head.

He just needs to alleviate his pain.

Josh unzips his joggers’ pocket and takes a small bottle, popping two pills out of it and placing them on his tongue, then chewing them; a bitter taste makes him want to vomit even more. Josh wants to check his phone, maybe there’s a message from Jordan or from _ Tyler. _There’s nothing.

Josh has never felt this stupid.

There’s the mush instead of his brain, his side and his chest hurt — Josh keeps pressing his palm to it as he goes to the couch. He lies down carefully, the back of his head aches as it touches the pillow. Josh closes his eyes and tries to make himself smaller as if this would cure his pain. Josh doesn’t notice that he starts chewing his sleeve, suppressing his groan, but it’s still audible. The hotness pulsates inside, Josh rolls over onto his side and pulls his knees to his chest again. 

It doesn’t take long before his wall begins to shake from a powerful kick.

“Stop fucking your whores there! You son of a bitch!”

Cooper’s shriek is muffled by both the wall and Josh’s semi-consciousness. He keeps spewing curses, and Josh wants to keep his head under the pillow until he chokes.

He hopes he’s not gonna wake up.

***

He wakes up.

He wakes up, and his world is as cracked as his body. Josh almost thinks about arranging a sick day, but Heaton is going to shove a hose up his ass if he skips the work today. Getting up is a struggle, and another set of pills is waiting for Josh on the table; he doesn’t wait for the painkiller to kick in, he pulls on his hoodie though he doesn’t remember taking his jacket off. He’s got a fever, he’s sore. Josh rubs his eyes and stumbles outside — he doesn’t even remember sleeping, and he thinks those thugs are waiting for him by his doorway.

But there’s no one out there.

Josh limps as he goes to the bus stop, he’s cold when he gets inside. He’s chewing a mint gum to kill the taste of blood. He bends over, folding his hands on his stomach and screwing his eyes shut; Josh sinks deeper into his seat; the bus is packed with people, the air smells like sweat. Josh hates this coffin on the wheels.

Josh can’t afford a hospital admission. 

He chews his gum harder, as if this can save his receptors from dying. His vision blackens for a second when the bump on the road hits against the tires; Josh exhales a slight _ fuck _ and hugs himself tighter until it’s his stop. 

He doesn’t even look at Brad as he passes by. Brad doesn’t look at him either, sitting in his office and typing on his computer.

Today’s a harsh day.

The customers don’t let Josh breathe, and their kids are screaming and leaving thick fingerprints on the glass stand. Josh has to watch after them all the time not to let them steal snacks lying there openly. Brad still refuses to get a vending machine — of course, because he has Josh. Josh, who can be a cashier, but also a security guy and a janitor. He can’t wait for his twenty-minute lunch break when he can sit the fuck down and rest.

Josh is thirsty and sick, his bones ache along with his innards.

“You must try once again.”

Josh doesn’t understand that somebody’s talking to him — then he finds himself trying to activate a pasty-faced woman’s card. He’s freezing under all of his layers and she has beads of sweat on her temples, she slaps her palm against the counter and Josh almost loses his footing.

“You don’t know how to work with customers,” she spits venomously.

Josh tries to pay with her card once again. Denied.

“Your card is blocked, ma’am.”

“What?”

She leans closer.

“What?”

“We can try again later,” Josh shrugs. His shoulders hurt, especially his left one; his chest jerks erratically as his pulse increases.

“I’m gonna sue you!” the woman screams.

The ringing in Josh’s ears grows louder. 

It’s getting mixed with a _ ‘Kenny, don’t eat these marshmallows until we buy them’ _ and Josh almost wants to excuse himself and go to bathroom as nausea hits him with full force. There are people in the line and their cars next to fuel dispensers, and they’re getting angry at Josh because he’s too slow. His tongue drowns in saliva in his mouth, he can already feel bile rising up his throat. It makes his heart drop into the hole of panic in his stomach.

“Can you hurry the fuck up?” a man barks up. His son’s licking the glass stand then hitting it with his bony fist.

“I’m demanding you to sell me that gas!” an obese lady yells as Josh lays her card onto the countertop. _ “You _ should pay for it, better do a good thing for a _ girl _ rather buying that damn alcohol!”

_ You were a girl at least thirty five years ago_, Josh wants to say. But he’s gonna lose his salary for insulting his clients.

“You can still use cash, ma’am,” Josh wheezes out. He zones out when a choir of voices chimes in.

“I wanna talk to your boss.”

“Oh, he’s just hangover, don’t you see? That’s how he respects us.”

“So? I’m not gonna leave until you pay for my gas!”

Josh’s throat is parched, he hasn’t drank anything since yesterday evening. He grabs a bottle of water from the counter — he’s gonna pay for it later — and unscrews the cap. Water spills down his chin as he takes a long chug but it doesn’t help him with his issue. The people are still about to rip him apart just like the crowd around the ring. Josh doesn’t have time to run or turn away; he holds his palm against his mouth to keep it inside, but his vomit trickles through his fingers, spraying the counter. There’s the blood in the puddle, and the woman tucks her card into her purse.

“I hope tax police will burn this fucking place down,” she says as she backs to the door.

Josh starts heaving again as the pain in his left side increases, he’s scared, his heart is about to give up.

“We’re not getting our car fueled today,” a man says angrily.

Josh wipes his palm on the hem of his hoodie, leaving red smears down it. Those kicks in his back and his stomach have definitely done a trick or two. He blinks at the lights on the ceiling, and his dizziness pushes him over the edge; he can’t soften the hit as he crashes down onto the floor. He’s turning his body to a hematoma.

The last thing Josh remembers is a distanced voice and a hand pulling up his hoodie.

***

He can still taste vomit on his lips.

His clothes are gone.

Josh rubs his eyes with his hand that is not chained to the IV stand, and just lies there until his senses come back; everything is fuzzy and painful. Josh can’t get his consciousness back until a man comes in; something in his face makes Josh self-conscious. Something in his bicep underneath his white coat makes Josh shiver. He can totally imagine himself losing the fight to this dude one day. Well, if he’s interested.

Maybe he wouldn’t even resist.

“I am Dr. McLuckie,” he introduces himself. “How are you doing, Mr. Dun?”

Breathing hurts, Josh is not in the mood to speak.

“I assume you’re waking up,” Dr. McLuckie nods. “I need to check the stitches.”

“S-stitches?” Josh tries to sit up, but the Doctor’s hand stops him.

“You’ve just had a surgery.”

Josh hits his head against the pillow.

“Oh God.”

He lets the doctor pull up his hospital gown and touch a patch of gauze framed with sterile patches. His stomach is numb, Josh wants to touch the wound and stick his finger into it. Just to make himself feel even worse.

“You’ve got your spleen ruptured, in such case we couldn’t avoid taking it out. There was a profuse bleeding in your abdominal cavity; I suppose only a thrombus that formed a while ago didn’t let you die of blood loss. But then the wound got opened again due to a sudden jerk of your body, I assume. Blood loss was critical enough to make you faint, Mr. Dun.”

Josh scrapes his forehead, it’s hard to digest all the information the doctor’s feeding him with.

“Your boss called an ambulance and saved your life,” Dr. McLuckie says.

Josh’s painkillers aren’t working, it seems. He can imagine some customers bursting into Heaton’s office not to tell him that the cashier had lost his consciousness but to complain.

“How am I… going to live without a spleen?”

“With a proper diet, you’re not even gonna notice that you don’t have a spleen, believe me,” the doctor’s way too enthusiastic and it’s concerning.

Josh lets him take his blood for a test again. His whole body is covered with fresh and old bruises, he is definitely gonna get asked about that. 

***

Brad is going to pay him for a week of his sickness, that’s what his short message reads. Josh wants to throw his phone into the wall because Brad has never been sentimental. But there’s nothing good about Josh’s prognosis; he can’t even eat anything except vegetables, oatmeal and shit like that, because his body simply can’t function as it used to. He’s lacking a damn organ now, and he needs to spend the next couple of months in a bed, not picking heavy stuff. He can’t fight now, he can’t work for Heaton because he can’t unload boxes with snacks now and run from one car to another. Josh feels sick at the thought that he has to contact Brad and tell him that he’s gonna quit this job.

Josh is allowed to get up, but he doesn’t want to talk to nurses or doctors or anyone. So a sudden visit doesn’t amp up Josh’s spirit. He’s not surprised when Mark barges into his hospital ward without a warning — he’s worried, and he says,

“Where have you been?”

And Josh replies,

“Here.”

He’s lost the count of time due to all the IVs that are just draining him out. Although he’s gonna get discharged soon. Although his life will never be the same. Mark doesn’t know.

“I fucked Tyler,” Josh says.

He’s so numb emotionally he doesn’t register the words he’s saying.

“You did what?.. Dammit, Josh, did you skip your sex ed lessons?”

“Go fuck yourself,” Josh closes his eyes with his palms. “I’m gonna strangle him to death I swear.”

One more mission before he decays completely.

***

Mark gives him a gun for self-protection. Josh doesn’t mind. Even though he’d better give this weapon to Jordan — Josh calls him, his surgery went well.

“Don’t you feel like getting chased?” Josh asks.

“Go sober up,” Jordan says, adding a _ thanks. _

And then he just hangs up.

Josh’s time is hanging on a thread from now on — Josh doesn’t have enough money for all the medicine and procedures; he’s doomed, but his rational side doesn’t let him panic. His stomach is scarred, empty and disemboweled, this affects his diet and his eating habits. Josh can’t get used to constant bouts of nausea, he stops jogging in the morning. 

His house is not his home, he is a stranger in this town.

Josh doesn’t expect to see Tyler again, but he’s standing on Josh’s driveway, looking like he’s just got pulled through a harsh confrontation with reality. With or without drugs, doesn’t matter. Dissipating in the textures of reality is Tyler’s unique style.

“Hey,” he says hoarsely.

“I hate you,” Josh says.

Tyler rubs his neck and rolls up his sleeves unintentionally; when his arms are half bare, Josh’s heart chokes on blood, almost stopping beating. Because Tyler’s arms are violated all over — there are barely healed sores and needle-pokes in his veins, blackened and unable to hold the blood inside.

Tyler doesn’t say that he hates Josh, and Josh says,

“I’m gonna take you for a ride.”

“Really?”

Tyler is like a dog, happy to get into the car even though no one can guarantee that the car is gonna get started today. Josh is sure that Cooper is gonna spy on them, so he looks at his fence intently.

“What are you looking at?”

Tyler is way too curious.

“My neighbor,” Josh spits. “That fucker who’s been knocking on the wall when you were sleeping on my couch.”

Tyler chews on his lip.

“There’s only one house, Josh. And it’s yours.”

“What?”

Josh wants to throw him onto the fence and ruin Cooper’s flowerbed, but the next house is right across the road since this suburb isn’t packed with people due to a high level of crime.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“You’ve been talking about an old Cooper and his crutch during your trip,” Tyler informs him. “And about him knocking on your wall, but you’ve been living without neighbors all the time, Josh.”

The stones Cooper have been throwing at him felt pretty real.

And Josh asks,

“Are _ you _ real?”

“Yes,” Tyler nods. “Yes, I am.”

Tyler can as well be Josh’s long-term hallucination, but Josh drives in silence, away from this horrible place. Josh only stops by the roadside next to the forest; Tyler rolls his sleeves up again. He’s getting paler within every second, sweating nervously and scraping his neck. Josh reads these signs as a nearing withdrawal. He taps his fingers on the steering wheel, barely keeping himself away from bursting there and then.

“I just found out what happened, Josh,” Tyler pants. “I swear I didn’t—”

“Bullshit.”

Josh is too tired and too diseased to argue.

“How’s your brother doing, Josh?”

“Better.”

The first wave passes, and only the thought about Jordan getting kidnapped or killed keeps torturing him.

“It’s good.”

Tyler sounds sincere. Josh hates it.

Their dialogue doesn’t flow any further. Tyler’s moves are slow, it reminds Josh of all of his fights. Josh doesn’t feel anything when Tyler leans against him, hunching his back and breathing into Josh’s groin; Josh doesn’t feel anything when Tyler starts to untie his joggers. Tyler uses his teeth and tongue to loosen the knot, his saliva wets the fabric. Josh gets angry when Tyler doesn’t control himself and pulls the lace out of the loops, throwing it onto the floor. It would be hard to get it back.

Tyler’s hair is growing back, but there are no strands to pull at, Josh is almost disappointed; Tyler’s head gets lower, even more saliva spills onto Josh’s underwear as Tyler gets his dick into his mouth. Josh doesn’t know what’s going on or what’s wrong; he gets hard in seconds, he knows what Tyler’s mouth would bring to him, but he doesn’t have to care. Josh comes embarrassingly quickly, and Tyler chokes and coughs, then spitting Josh’s semen in the gap between the seats.

“This is what you used to do, huh?” 

Josh’s body is still tensed as he leans to the back of the seat. Tyler’s throat is apparently still wrecked. Josh is attacking, trying not to think how good Tyler’s head looked between his thighs.

“Sold yourself for a dose? Let them fuck you just to get more shit?”

“Did I have any other option?”

This sounds almost philosophic.

The gun tucked under Josh’s seat doesn’t like philosophy. Tyler doesn’t flinch when the barrel is pointed at him.

“Been whoring around just to get a hit, tried to get better and failed. This sounds like a shitty movie scenario,” Josh chuckles, holding his finger on the trigger.

Tyler cocks his head, interested.

“Wanna kill me because I didn’t swallow? Or because you don’t know what to do with that damn tie?”

Tyler pokes fresh track marks on his forearm. Josh aims for one of the veins popped up on the side of Tyler’s head. Tyler blinks repeatedly, slowly rising his arm and gripping at the gun, gradually directing it to his mouth; he laughs and sucks the barrel of a gun. Josh is about to get hard again.

“I’m sick,” Tyler talks to the gun, not to Josh. “Do me a favor.”

Josh’s heart is beating so fast it hurts his rib cage. Tyler adds one more detail Josh didn’t need to know.

“If I had a nickname it would have been _ Heathen_.”

He shakes harder as he speaks.

Josh never puts the safety on.

“You’re the truest heathen.”

Tyler folds his palms between his knees, sticking them together as if this can help him control the tremor. His eyelids are ticking, and his Adam’s apple bobs up and down with each gulp.

“Do me a favor,” Tyler whispers. “Do it already.”

Josh never stops rotting now, when he can’t eat probably, when he turns out to be a schizophrenic. He tries to remember all the good days in the past year and gets nothing. The only person he wants to take with him is Tyler, Tyler is a monster, he quivers and sinks in his hoodie, looking at Josh from time to time. Josh doesn’t want to see him going through a withdrawal, not anymore.

“Do it.”

This is a chain of flashbacks going through Josh’s head quickly — fight, sex, fight, hospital — this is a purgatory. Josh has never seen anyone who wanted to die this bad. Josh can take him hostage instead, they can leave the city together, change their names, or —

Josh can pull the trigger like a veterinarian who kills a frenzied dog. But Tyler is slowly killing himself already, and maybe, just maybe Josh wants him to suffer even more. Tyler is a useless junkie, a total failure, a dead weight dragging Josh down. One bullet can solve all of his problem. Josh imagines his brains stick to the side window.

Josh is still good at throwing punches. He slams the butt of the gun into Tyler’s jaw, hard and fast, his head lolls to his shoulder, blood sprinkles the glass. His breathing is raspy, it hurts Josh’s ears.

“Bye, Tyler,” Josh says, staring down at the barrel of a gun. “See you soon.”

He’s hesitant, he wonders if he deserves to get his pain relieved. 

If Josh hears the shotgun, he’s not going to be met by God on the other side.

**Author's Note:**

> *tommy wiseau, the quote from his movie 'the room'  
\---  
so.  
happy halloween!  
\---  
i wrote this fic more than a year ago;  
original ending was much darker than this one, but i decided to let it go so i had to rewrite and delete some parts not to turn everything to ~too dumb drama~. and yes, there are some fight club references because why not.  
\---  
[poster](https://pantaloonwarrior.tumblr.com/post/188742936952/home-town-written-by-i-seeaspaceshipinthe-sky) by pantaloonwarrior <3


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